


Between Heaven and Hell

by Diana_Prallon



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, pre-Series 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 21:16:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1526066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diana_Prallon/pseuds/Diana_Prallon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was madness, to allow himself to get lost in the wonders that shaped Guinevere, but there was nothing else he wished to do apart, perhaps, being the one spinning her around in happiness and laughter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between Heaven and Hell

The thing about dancing in court is that it’s far more complicated than it sounds. There were a number of rules; concerning propriety and precedence, things that made some knights, like Gwaine, to completely forsake dancing, but it did little to diminish Lancelot’s enjoyment of it.

 

There were some slight complications to it, which he had noticed since establishing himself in Camelot after the dark battle against the immortal army. It was easy to see how it had taken its toll, not only because Uther had become a ghost king, a shell of power, or in the commoners that had been raised to knighthood. Those were to be expected, and were the cause and the result to Arthur’s coming to power; becoming the King in all ways that mattered before his father was laid to rest.

 

No, what surprised him was that even if Arthur was now free to do as he saw fit; Guinevere still stood in shadows during most of the festivities -- as if the laughter and brightness of midsummer couldn’t touch her. After Arthur’s open shows of love towards her, Lancelot had expected them to get married -- or at least for their relationship to be formally acknowledged, but this seemed to be a step too far for their Prince to take as his father wasted away, buried alive in his chambers.

 

He had given her up, and years later, she was still just a maid, a serving girl left to handling cups as the court enjoyed their feast, and it made Lancelot’s insides squirm with the wrongness of it. He wished to go to her, to invite her to dance with the rest, but he knew he couldn’t -- it wouldn’t be proper and, even worse, it might offend Arthur. There was nothing he could do but to look around, pleading at the only person that _could_ bring her into the warmth of the feast.

 

It took Elyan a while, but he finally took the hint and invited his sister to join him on the dance;  for the first round, Lancelot did nothing but watch -- the graceful move of her body, her curls bobbing right above her shoulders, and the delicate steps that she used to follow her brother’s lead.

 

It was madness, to allow himself to get lost in the wonders that shaped Guinevere, but there was nothing else he wished to do apart, perhaps, being the one spinning her around in happiness and laughter.

 

So it stood to (lack of) reason that as the next dance came, Lancelot would invite one of the Ladies in the court to stand with him. He barely saw her -- a young, small thing named Elaine whose eyes shone with adoration as he guided her to the circle of dancers -- the only daughter of Lord Astolat. He had no eyes for her, because everything he could see was Gwen -- even more beautiful up close as the dance brought them next to each other.

 

He knew he had chosen the dance well as it led them to stand together. Lancelot’s hands met her waist with a trembling, and he felt as much as he saw her gasp, her skin filled with goose bumps. He looked inside her eyes and wondered how he had ever imagined that giving her up was a good, wise choice -- but there was no coming back now, even if her eyes were alive with some smoldering emotion that he dared not to name, he could never be forgiven for presuming to know her feelings better than she did; he could never forgive himself if he did anything to break Arthur’s heart even further; not after everything the man had done for him; not after all he had suffered in the hands of his sister.

 

They stepped together in perfect sync, in a way that went transcended the sound of the music outside, being commanded only by the beating of their hearts as he held her hand and guided her in a twirl around him, his hands moving towards her waist and raising her in the hair, her glinting against candlelight where it caught the exposed expenses of dark skin revealed by her lavender gown, inciting his eyes and stealing his breath.

 

Her lips were partially open, an unending temptation as she sighed against his hair in the final moments of the dance.

 

“Lancelot” she whispered, and it was a blessing and a sin all in once.

 

“My lady” he replied, bowing towards her, with no wish to leave her side but knowing that he must if it were to resist, or he’d be forever chained to her side, lost between the Heaven and Hell that lived in their hearts.

 

Gwen sighed, seeming defeated at his resistance and gave him a tight nod before moving back towards the servants, Elyan engrossed in conversation to Lady Lucan. Lancelot took a great care in returning his partner to the company of her father, Lord Bernard; praising her dancing skills and apologizing for not dancing with her again. He couldn’t even imagine how he could one day stand and dance again with another woman after feeling the way Gwen’s steps had matched his, how they seemed to breath in the same rhythm. Truth be told, he also couldn’t imagine how he would bear to watch when Arthur finally made her his bride and moved alongside her in the hall – or how to stand and watch as any other man that was not her flesh and blood moved with her.

 

Still, bear he would, and if it made him ache, he would hide it inside and smile at their happiness, even if it coasted his own. It was a small price to pay – to watch her in someone else’s arms and to imagine all other ways in which she’d be embraced if it meant she was safe, happy, and home.

 

And if someone asked him about that night, that first midsummer he spent in Camelot, he would shake his head and deny whatever trance had taken hold of them. It was just a dance after all.


End file.
